


Be My Lighthouse Shining

by solitariusvirtus



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, Background Relationships, Conquest of the Stepstones, Dubious Morality, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Family Drama, Middle Ages, Moral Ambiguity, Multi, No Duskendale Defiance, Politics, R plus L equals J, Viserys is Crown Prince
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-30
Updated: 2018-04-26
Packaged: 2018-12-08 22:04:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11655636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solitariusvirtus/pseuds/solitariusvirtus
Summary: The King's reward is a double-edged sword. That much Lyanna learns upon receiving word that the Stepstones are conquered, yet nothing else is much as it ought to be. It is in this topsy-turvy world that the gods declared she must live, thus she's no other choice but to square her shoulders and march on, or lay down and give up the soul.AU! While Lyanna is not at all opposed to the land and coin the King wishes to foist upon her, she does wonder whether the formerly-sellsword husband is necessary.





	1. i. seedling

 

 

 

 

 

 

**_281 AL_ **

 

 

**_King's Landing_ **

 

 

 

 

 

 

"We ought to consider the strain such a scheme would place upon the kingdoms," Pycelle was saying, his fingers continually stroking the white beard covering half his face. "As we should give a thought to whether this victory would not be a bitter one, rather than a jewel in His Majesty's crown."

"Are you suggesting we allow our ships to be molested out of fear?" roared a voice from the crowd. Rickard winced ever so slightly. He wished, not for the first time that he were back in Winterfell, tending to alliances between his offspring and other houses. Sitting the Great Council, debating the merit of a conqueror's scheme was not to his taste. And yet there he was, trapped in a seat, joined by his fellow peers. "You old fool; how long until your weakness has the barbarians at our doors? Give them your life if you would, but do not dare promise them mine."

Murmurs of agreement rose from the crowd. But the King held up his hand, silencing the worst of it. His luck, however, could not hold out indefinitely. Opponent to the Grand Maester rose Hoster Tully, backed with approving noises from his men. Having concluded his point, Pycelle made way for the liege lord of the Riverlands, The cheers petered into silence after a short while and Hoster began.

"It is good and wise to wonder at the cost of such endeavours as those we have come here to discuss," he allowed the point to the maester. Such a beginning had the benefit of endearing him, to a certain degree, to the frowning maesters and their acolytes. "One should not dismiss such worries out of hand. That being said, it is my sincere belief that we ought to rise above. It is not self-evident that pacifying these sea-faring foes will bring us any measure of peace. Forsooth, the wisdom of our forefathers is not diminished in the least by the possibility that we will suffer some losses. I say this not with the understanding that the suffering of my fellow man is somehow diminishable. Indeed not; I say this with the full support of the notion embedded in our very belief that the gods have put us forth as a people with adamant insistence upon our sovereignty. And in this idea of sovereignty lies salvation and, in equal measure, responsibility. Responsibility to our forbearers and to our sons and daughters who will continue to roam these fields and navigate the seas long after we are gone.

We are the masters of our own destiny and forgers of our own paths only as long as we hold to the belief that our freedom is inherently the holiest of our possessions. If we are to sacrifice what we hold most dear, most holy and most essential to our existence, then we might as well place upon the altar of our folly every single child we have ever produced between us or, indeed, shall ever see created; for to live in slavery as consequence of a conquest invited by one's own parents is nothing short of egregious betrayal and it is no manner of life." Hoster Tully paused, presumably for effect. The lull, however, saw the rise of boisterous accord and condemnations, alike, for the cravens who would murder all those children with their policy of measure.

Worry crossed many a face as the Riverlander lord continued his diatribe. "I put it to you," the man said, gesturing to the wider audience, as opposed to the narrow row of lined faces, "that there is not a thing that bears more import than independent, conscious choice. A black curse fall upon the head of any man, or woman, who would pry from the clenched fists of our progenies this very choice. I, personally, pledge myself to the cause of freedom. I pledge my son and every single one of my men. And in the event that they fall, I pledge my daughter, and their sons. And the daughter of my daughter, forthwith shall they guard that this pledge be carried out; and all the Riverlands with them." So impassioned did he become that his fist slammed against the wooden beam he had supported himself upon thus far. And to this the crowd responded with cheers and agreement, not only those of his men who had come with, but those of them who had no reason to so enthusiastically lend their backing.

It was a done deal; the Riverlands had spoken. And with them, it seemed, agreement came from the Stormlands as well. But that was not so much a surprise. Those ships had been sailing under the Stormlands' flag. Rickard heard the words come forth out of Steffon Baratheon, who was pledging his sons, to the King's cause; and not only them, but his ships and his lords and the sons of his lords and the daughters as well.

To one as untethered as he, it was a knell, deep and troubling, a vision of a serpents' nest, all of whom waited upon an adventurous endeavour. And yet to sit back and allow the world to happen to him, it was something of which he could not conceive. Thus he stood and by his actions caused a hush to fall over his brethren. Hoster climbed down, landing safely enough so that when his hand came down upon Rickard's shoulder, there was nothing for it but to nod his head and climb the steps onto the dais.

"Lord Rickard Stark of Winterfell, Warden of the North has word." His men, predictably, strove to rise his consequence with thunderous assent to whatever it was that he prepared to say.

The King moved promptly to calm the atmosphere in an obviously anticipatory motion. Thus far, the opposition had been shamed and censured, finding itself in a morally fraudulent tiny corner from which they could not hope to advance without incurring the wrath of the mob. A good lord looked to the interests of his people. Thus, so would he; for better or worse the course had been set.

"To follow upon the path of the preceding speech," he began, eyeing the gathering of so lofty a collection of notables, "though there is little else that needs laying out, I will, nevertheless, strive to underscore the tantamount importance of a firm position in the face of aggression as such that has been dealt upon us." He waited for the shifting, fidgeting and its kin to disappear. "In response to the earlier claim that the price of a few ships is small enough that might be we should consider simply paying it without further complaint, I say this: freedom cannot be bought." His voice cracked with the force of a whip. "The tithe will increase, year by year, until the price of freedom will be freedom itself. Too long have we accepted the tyranny of it; the shame. Man is either free, or he is no different than a beast; therefore what good that he has a mind and thoughts of his own for he is not free to pursue any of it." Cheers interrupted him.

"I say unto you, live forthrightly; in thought and deed. Truth is the greatest weapon and the best ally. Live life in such a way that action cause no more harm than absolutely necessary. If we accept as truth the presence of a predator at our door, we consequently accept the need for deed. It is not, as the well-meaning maesters say, a choice, between sacrificing gold, silver and cloth and curbing the lives of countless men. I put it to you that we are asked an entirely different question. The choice is between a small sacrifice now for a prosperous future ahead, or, we could opt for cowardice, accept that we've not cause to blame the creature at our door and open wide the gates to our own peril. But hear me, good people of Westeros; 'tis not at all the same to die a chained dog with its tail tucked between its legs, or to go in glorious defiance to those who seek to enslave a proud people." The presently free gathering before him approved of that, as could be gouged by the adoring half-broken cries of adulation intermingled with a deep sense of righteousness, or, Rickard pondered, out of what could only be naivety and chance. But it was enough for his word to make an impact and that he could live with.

"We are placed," he went on, "in the unenviable position of answering foreign violence. Were it the gods themselves descending down upon a beam of light, demanding our land and pride, we would send them back to their high heavens." Again agreement. One could grow used to such adoration. "Our toil and blood is not for others to take; but we have been here before. Maelys the Monstrous fell, slain as any man. And these foes we now face, they are not even a tenth of a god. As all men, any men, they will fall to our swords, because truth is on our side."

Emerging, to his mind, victorious, Rickard allowed his position to be taken by yet another defender of their boarders, champion of convincing word and pleaser of the King. He sat back down in his chair, accepting a cup of wine pushed in his hands. Brandon, visibly shaken, by such strong sentiment as that permeating the walls of the great hall, looked on in awe, unrest thrumming within him, writhing and demanding. He allowed some time to pass before addressing the boy. "We are now on a path to war."

"A war for freedom and truth." If his own hard-headed son was convinced, he could be certain other men had been as well. "Is there any man who would refuse to defend those to whom he owes protection?"

Deciding against crushing the illusion, Rickard merely nodded. War did have an advantage; it distracted the hungry and angry from their troubles. Man was ever more receptive to the ills of life for a great cause. It afforded them time; time they would not otherwise have.

Before long only one thought remained in the conscience of the well-dressed horde. They were in peril; action must be taken. And thus the King was satisfied in his endeavour to move his faithful subjects. The spirit of righteous indignation took possession of them all; Rickard would not lie by excluding himself.

So it came to pass that on that day, when stood the King to his feet, no doubt was in the mind of any man that they would soon set sail with vessels heavily loaded. As though to further confirm, the King spoke, "We have come, after long debate, to satisfying conclusion. Be it then known that the Great Council and the King are in agreement that the enemies, whoever they may be, will not escape unscathed should they choose to match will and skill with us. I, Aerys, second of my name, king of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, lord of the Seven Kingdoms, protector of the realm, declare before you, my fateful subjects, that from this day forth for every fallen son of ours we shall take from them seven times seven that. 'Tis time that the weapons had their say!"

Unsheathing his sword, the ruler of the realm proceeded to vow that he himself would lead the charge. Rickard wondered whether he imagined the worry on Tywin Lannister's face. Before he could contemplate the matter over-long, a weight settled upon his shoulder. Steffon Baratheon greeted him, the words barely audible. "It is men like you, Rickard, and like Hoster, that make life worth living. To know one's brother so forthcoming, so desirous to aid; well, words fail me." And so they did. "My gratitude shan't remain in word only."

"My friend, what words those! I will not even conceive of it. If we do not look out one for the other, who else will?"

"Well said," Hoster cut in.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lyanna turned this way and that, her hands smoothing over the fine, thick cloth of his garment; lips pursed slightly, as though she was having trouble giving answer. That he knew not to be the case. "This is all I am willing to allow. You must but say the words and it shall be as you will it." Her eyes snapped to his and something behind that innocent gaze warned of steel and mulish-headedness. "Pray, make this no more difficult than it need be."

"Then I shall take what has been so gratefully offered," she spoke, tugging the collar gently into shape. He heard the plea in her voice and steeled himself against the tenderness sweeping over him. She was not a child any longer and he could not protect her forever. Better that she come to terms with her duty. "I know not how I shall endure. But if there is no other way-“

"No other way," he echoed, pushing her hands away. "When this whim of His Majesty's is well satisfied, and he comes back, I expect you will have a smile for your betrothed, you hear?" She nodded, the deceptive mildness of her manner very nearly enough to convince him. "I will not bow to your fancies; Lyanna, you must understand. There is nothing preceding the standing of our house."

"I know that, lord father." She took a step back and in a fashion all of her own, bowed her head in contrition. Whether feigned or otherwise it was received as a sign of victory; that at the very least he spoke to a woman and not a wall. He waited. "I shall have a smile for Robert upon his return." He was about to congratulate her choice, but she interrupted. "But not before that; not a moment before that. And you cannot ask it of me."

On the contrary, he could ask it; he could demand it. Nevertheless, he offered no protest to her vehemence. Brandon and Lyanna, those two would find their world shattered to pieces as soon as they understood that reality did not bend to them. He was not the one to teach them. Let her have her time; what request that. In the end, she would wed Robert Baratheon and, when she was a woman grown, she would thank him.

"I have to say, the benefit of Catelyn's instructions is notable," he teased good-naturedly, "these do look like wolves." His commented upon her skill with a needle had Lyanna flushing. Rickard chuckled and turned away from the looking-glass. "Come here, daughter."

Lyanna approached without reservations. He took her face between his hands and kissed the top of her head. "I know 'tis difficult for you. And I want to make clear how very proud I am of you." She preened, head tipping back ever so slightly as she lifted her chin with pride. "It is these small sacrifices-"

"That yield great rewards. I know, father." Pulling back, his daughter brought her hands together in front of her. "I shall try to please you."

"Good. Now come. I am certain your good-sister is eager to be rescued from your brothers by now."

She laughed. "Catelyn adores Brandon. I doubt anything could induce her to wish him away." A sigh followed. "Must you leave as well, father? Brandon and Ned are doubtlessly capable of facing a few pirates."

"Would that it were a few pirates. No; sweet daughter. The King means to have the Stepstones. Whoever places himself in his path must perish. And we are to be the iron fist which wraps around his enemies and squeezes life out of them." The girl started, realisation clouding her previous good-humour.

"But 'twas Lord Baratheon's ships that were attacked." His daughter stopped walking.

"Which in the eyes of our King is a declaration of war. Come, Lya; you did not think we were called to court for Steffon Baratheon's ships, did you?" He held his hand out to her. "No matter. You needn't concern yourself with these matters, except that you promise to care for Benjen. And that I know you will do with Catelyn's help."

In the end she had no recourse but to accept his guidance and he took the both of them into the private dining chamber placed at their disposal. His good-daughter had taken her husband and his brother well in hand, proving his wisdom in choosing her for future lady of Winterfell.

"You are just in time, father. Catelyn says she will sing for us," Brandon commented upon observing their arrival.

"I did not," his wife denied, shaking her head vehemently.

"So she did," Ned chuckled, for a first looking as though he might manage more than a few lifeless lines.

"Do sing," Lyanna joined in as well while he settled at the head of the table. "Otherwise we shall have to endure Brandon's boasting of deeds he has not even accomplished yet. And I for one am heartily tired of that."

"I accomplished everything I ever boasted of," her brother protested loudly, enough so, it appeared, that his wife demanded silence of him so that she might sing. Avoiding confrontation appeared as good a motivator as any.

So she sang. An old ballad long out of favour. A favourite among the pack of wolves her father had entrusted her to.

 

_The ancient shrines burnt,_

_And 'twas a day of mourning._

_The barbarian hoards_

_O'er my undying fortress stept._

 

_I stood naked in the fires,_

_Searching the skies,_

_I begged a drop of mercy,_

_A piece of the truths eternal._

 

_It rained grief and sorrow_

_O'er my kingdom overthrown._

_Men were in silence fallen,_

_A god, silver- temple'd, perish'd._

 

_I burnt upon the pyre,_

_And the mountain with me sear'd..._

_From the body of such as mine,_

_And from these ruins old,_

 

_'Twas the seed of my people born_

_From fire, blood and soil,_

_Out of a drop of holy water,_

_And from curse and from song..._

 

_It rained grief and sorrow_

_O'er my kingdom overthrown._

_Men were in silence fallen,_

_A god, silver- temple'd, perish'd._

 

_Lo' the seed that fruit did bear,_

_As time hath decreed to pass;_

_An entire people to flourish,_

_Of fire and mountain-flowers._

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Speeches inspired by a multitude of old period movies. Don't bother guessing; I'm sure you've never seen them.
> 
> Song adapted from Sămânța Geto-Dacă by Daniel Avram. 
> 
> Anyway, this is on of my crazy ideas. I decided to get it out and be done with it. Hope you enjoy. As always.


	2. ii. bloodbath

 

 

 

 

 

 

**_282 AL_ **

 

_**The Stepstones** _

 

 

 

 

 

 

With preternatural force, given to him, he was certain, by some merciful god, Ned knocked the rim of his shield into the chest of the man before him. A groan was wrenched from the wretch, lost in the screams of cries of countless other men fighting their way through a throng of writhing bodies. From the corner of his eye he caught sight of a body falling. Dust rose, the taste of sand mingling with the pregnant scent of blood. Ned coughed, unable to help himself. He took a step back and before he knew what was happening his own body betrayed him, crumbling underneath a wave of unrelenting pain.

Fear so fierce gripped him as burning pain danced along his side, burrowing sharp claws into too-soft flesh. Short of breath he instinctively allowed his blade to fall, raising one arms overhead at the descending blade. A foolish action, he realised in the split-second it took for death to rear its ugly head. He wanted to beg. He wanted to plead and barter with the gods. It was not fair.

Afore the sharp edge made contact though, iron pierced the leather covering of his enemy, bursting through his gut. A spay of blood jumped at him from the gushing wound. Scalding, the viscous substance coated his cheek and chest-plate, staining the steel and the rings of his hauberk. The foe fell to his knees as the sword drew out from him. A tall figure stood triumphant behind the slain man. But Ned had only a moment to commit the man's features to memory before that same soldier turned to the nearest figure dressed in mostly cloth and launched himself into yet another attack.

He hand fell back upon the hilt of his sword. The soldier returned, having taken down yet another adversary, piercing him through the eye, no less. "On your feet," he ordered. He must have been one of the sellswords for the Westron tongue rolled heavily off his lips. Spurred into action nonetheless, Ned responded to the direct order in the only manner he knew how. He obeyed. Once on his feet, he saw what had felled him afore. 'Twas the mutilated body of a unfortunate combatant. He'd seen the young man, squired for some Stormlander knight.

"Not the time to be mulling matters," his saviour snapped. And Ned, like before, gave in to the implied command, turning his attention back to the fray. He attacked the very first man he saw. An over-eager creature all thumbs with the wielding of his weapon. He struck once and struck true, brining the sword down, splitting the man from shoulder to gut. Waves and wave of blood coated his blade. Entrails and innards poured forth.

As though struck by divine inspiration, his hand guided by a blood-thirsty war-mongering deity, he found himself struggling with yet another man he fought and overcame, dispatching him with more ease. The sight of gore did not deter him for a moment longer than it should have and all the better for he found himself met with a fierce response. His shield, worn and battered, weathered blow after blow, sturdy and stalwart, admirable in its hardiness.

His thoughts turned to Brandon. He's ridden ahead on that steed Barbrey Ryswell's father had gifted him. A magnificent beast with a temper to match. It had been trained to kick and bite, as fierce as his brother. He hoped his brother yet lived. A hand grabbed at his ankle, momentarily distracting him. Ned shook off the hold, aware that he was in danger as the sight of sharp steel flew towards him. He brought down his foot upon the dome of the enemy's head. So strong was his stomp that blood started leaking from a broken nose. But he did not stop. Not until just a mush remained beneath his heel.

Such were the actions which distracted him long enough for a heavy body to slam into him, knocking Ned to the ground. Rolling on his side, he fought against the pain lacing through his shoulder. He could do little against the superior strength of the assailant, who managed to drag out the knife he'd embedded in his shoulder. Both his side and the new injury pulsed with pain. He choked on his own scream and forced himself to add the whole of his weight into another attempt. The cry would not be stuffed into the back of his throat and the ache came howling forth. He somehow managed to turn the table upon the other, bringing his blade crossing over the vulnerable flesh of his throat. His fingers wrapped around the dirk forgotten in the dirt. His shield was lost to him. He must have dropped when fighting for his life.

He felt tired. His wounds were bleeding life and he should have liked something to staunch the blood with. There was no place for him to sit and bind the wretched things. He plunged his dirk into the nearest man, not quite certain he was friend or foe. By his garb he could be either. Whatever the case, his sword struck through the mouth opened in a scream. It occurred to him that his eyesight faltered. He'd heard it said that death would sometimes take one's eyes before taking their life as well. Leaving them to hear the world around him gently faded. Or rather as he faded.

He lost his footing, this time tumbling forth not for some obstacle placed in his way, but for the weakness of his own flesh. Yet fear did not visit him a second time. A fine film of dust rose about him, the beauty of blood-speckled gold stroked by sunrays left him momentarily speechless. To die with such a sight seared into his mind, Ned could not complain. His torso and shoulder protested as he smashed into the ground rising up to meet him. The wounds smarted and wetness spilled across his fingers. Bits and pieces of treasure rained down upon him before his sight finally gave way and caved, leaving him with only a loud screech in his ears before, just as quick as it had been to come, it disappeared.

How much time passed before he came to, Ned could not tell. What he did notice as he woke to the various pains and aches pinching and prodding him, even lying down without movement, was that the skies had darkened. The rough sand upon his lips and tongue scratched painfully. His sore throat unable to lodge complaint made do with choking him. With an inhuman effort, guided more by a moment's impulse than anything else he wrenched himself away from the hard bed the gods and gifted him and landed on his back, the burning in his shoulder intensifying to scalding proportions. Blood gushed from what he could now clearly feel was the broken stump of a spear piercing him. Panting, Ned shook with the effort it took to keep from crying out. Silence reigned supreme in his vicinity but even so he could not be certain the fighting was at an end. The tang of copper flooded his mouth and he coughed involuntarily. At least he was able to drag air in, not quite as much as he would have wished. But between choking to death and bleeding out slowly, he chose the latter.

He did wish though that he had managed to return. Lyanna had written that Lady Catelyn had had a daughter. It would have been nice to meet his niece and dance with his sister at her wedding. After all, he'd promised he would have words with Robert before she was given in his care; and he knew Lyanna would be none too pleased he'd not kept his promise to her after she had hounded him for days to obtain the vow in the first place. How cruel that he would never be able to please her in that. The one woman who had done everything in her power to please him.

His sight fixed upon a point overhead. He could not quite tell but he thought it might be a star. A very bright one at that, for the light, soft and pale, was more comforting than rousing. Would they find his body, carry him back to Winterfell, or would they stack them all up together upon pyres. Might be they would simply bury them in great holes. What a fate, to spend the rest of eternity in some unmarked pit with only strangers for company. Another cough wracked him. The jostling aggravated the wound in his shoulder.

If the gods were good, mother would wait for him at the gates. A vague memory of a warm smile and soft, sweet-scented hands rose to the forefront of his mind. He could not recall what she looked like, but he rather thought she was the one who had given Lyanna her features, except for the flinty eyes, ironically. Those she had from father. And his temper. Mother had been as sweet-natured as a lamb. His sister was a she-wolf through and through.

A sudden flare of copper-light was shoved in his voice. Ned would have jumped back were it not for the vehement refusal of his limbs to obey. "This one is alive!" He did not recognise the voice, not the face that materialised before him. Wizened, looking more like an old booth rather than a human, the old man held one hand out. "Here, boy," he spoke in much softer tones, "attend me."

He coughed by manner of reply. The man put away the torch, taking away his sight. He felt hands gripping his shoulder and managed a garbled cry. "Aye. Painful, I know. But we must move ye." More hands grabbed at him, causing a whirling panic to take over. He felt the wood and barbed steel tugging back of frayed flesh. He feared his cries were something he could not quite find in himself to be ashamed of. They sat him up, pulling on the breast-plate he wore. The hauberk followed. Blood flowed and flowed, it stained the front and back of his tunic.

His last layer of covering was cut apart with one deft stroke and the torn cloth was removed by gentler hands. Ned heard a calm voice giving instructions. Something cool pressed against the open wound on his shoulder. He hissed but could not find the strength to move. "There now," a cultured voice put it to him, "you must keep still. We shall clean the wounds and bind them. Acolyte, to me." A maester then. Of course there would be some about. "I see the wolf of Winterfell sewn onto your sleeve. Are you by chance kin to the lord?"

"Second son," he managed to stutter out. Strong arms held him up gingerly.

"I see," the maester said after a moment of silence. "This must be your first time on the field of battle." Once mod a wet cloth brushed against the gaping flesh, wiping away what could only be dirt and sand. Ned dearly hoped an infection would not come. "I have for you some milk of the poppy. You must drink it." He gave a weak nod and accepted the small cup when it was brought to his lips. One small sip let him know the taste was still as distasteful as ever. He muddled through the rest of the draught, trying not to gag. In the end he managed to down it to the last drop.

Before he'd had a moment to breathe before ointment was applied to the raw flesh. The arms holding him up held him down as well when he bucked. "Nay, nay; you must keep still," the maester reminded him. The milk of the poppy began to make kits voice heard, mellowing him ever so slowly until he was no more than a ragdoll to be turned and carried however those around him saw fit. Ned slipped once more into sweet slumber, thankful that his pain eased.

Once more he woke, but this time 'twas not upon a field with sand in his mouth and pain in his shoulder, but rested against a straw palette, pillows beneath his head and furs drawn to his chest. He sat up slowly and rubbed one his eyes, noting his injured hand was unusable. No matter how he tried to lift the limb no cooperation came forth. He could do with a cup of wine, alas, he seemed to have been left on his own. Not a surprising occurrence. Likely as not he was not the only man who had received a few wounds for his service to king and country. In spite of his arm not cooperating he found that with a bit of effort he could lift his weight from the palette and walk about the tent.

A jug had been left upon a low stool. When Ned looked within he found there was indeed wine within. Beside the jug sat a cup, looking remarkably clean. He poured himself some of the liquid, the precision of his movement taking him aback somewhat. Having never been injured to such a degree, the experience was entirely novel. And he imagined the doubtlessly healthy quantity of milk of the poppy imbibed helped matters along nicely.

Rustling sounds prompted his head to turn his head. His brother's head peeked within the tent, a grin upon his face. "I was wondering when you would be up and about." The rest of his body followed within. Unlike himself, he sported no obvious injury. "Gave us a right fright. Father was certain he'd have to write back of your demise." Brandon approached, placing his hand upon the uninjured shoulder. "Your sacrifice would not have been in vain, for a certain. We drove the enemy away."

"Might be they will return in time," he found himself murmuring, not entirely pleased by the notion.

"Would that they did. I should dearly like to slay a few more of their numbers." Despite the words he saw wariness in the other's gaze and knew that Brandon was no more desirous than himself at that point.

"Father is well enough, I take it?" He took a sip of his wine, enjoying the sweetness.

"As well as can be expected. He had a missive from our dear sister, asking after our return. But we must wait on the King's pleasure and father upon the negotiations. Did you know one of those pirate captain betrayed the rest of them and came to our side. Truly turned the tide, it did. They are now wondering what to do with the fellow."

"Give him land and coin, I don't doubt." Although the thought that one should reward treachery did not sit well with Ned. He understood that being ideal was not at all proper for all situations. "What of us?"

"I reckon most leaders shall receive their rewards. And I can only hope mine shall be release from duty and an order to hie myself back home. What of you, Ned? Should you enjoy a patch of land on the sun whereupon you may raise your own keep?"

He would rather take another spear to the shoulder. Suffice to say his brother knew him well enough to chuckle at the expression upon his face. "Honest to a fault. Never fear, Ned, I doubt His Majesty means to give any of us the land and we can always convince father to send Benjen if it comes to that. The child would thank us too."

"Have you word from your Catelyn or is Lyanna the only one who wrote?" He moved away from his brother and with some difficulty pulled on a fresh tunic.

"You know our sister, she will detail everything under the sun. Catelyn focused more on our little Minisa." And by the look upon his face his brother could not be happier.

"How is Minisa, by the by?" In truth Brandon had not seen his daughter. Catelyn had written comprehensively about the girl, and Lyanna made her own reports, clearly delighted at having her little niece about, but even so in the absence of any such method to see the child, Brandon would have to make do with letters and such.

"Growing every day, according to Cat." It could not have been easy for his good-sister. There had been Lyanna with her, but his sister had very much suggested Catelyn should have enjoyed Brandon's presence. But then one could not simply abandon a military campaign. Their father would not have allowed it and neither would the King, come to think of it. "I half expect she'll soon be nagging me to find the girl a husband."

"One hopes it shan't be too soon." They made their way without the tent. Ned looked at the men milling about. One or two camp followers had found their way in those parts as well, one or two fairly young and pleasant to look upon. He shook the thought away and gazed at his brother, for some odd reason unsettled. "Father is with the King?"

"For the moment. I understand before long His Majesty will have taken some very important decisions. One would wish the great lords of the realm should be close by to advise the King." If the King accepted it, in the first place. He nodded his head, not minding at all whether father returned later rather than sooner. It was enough to know that all was well for the time being.

"Where are we going then?"

"Walking. The maester assured me you would wish to stretch your legs after lying like the dead for so long."

"For so long?"

"It has been a few days. You did not think you were out for mere hours, did you?" He had, as a matter of fact. Ned blinked slowly. Days? He could hardly believe it. "Well, what say you? Shall we walk?"

"Just as long as you do not plan to have me running." His side smarted in anticipation.

"Very droll, but you shall see I have forgotten treats to motivate you to such an endeavour."

"Your eyesight must be failing, brother. It just so happens I am not your horse."

"Godsamercy! But you do look to be two peas in a pod."

 

 

 

 

 

 


	3. iii. omen

 

 

 

 

 

 

“She is very fair to look upon,” Lyanna allowed, following Cersei Lannister’s progress with keen interest, “but I fear there is something just beneath that fairness which reeks of foul vanity and vulgar superiority.”  Benjen snorted, but before he could defend the daughter of Casterly Rock, Lyanna firmly planted her opinion, “I have seen her servant girl; she carries the mark of her mistress’ ire.”

“She might well deserve the ire, lady,” her brother countered, one corner of his mouth lifting as though he saw a jest where she did not. “The gods know servants at times do.” Were he not of her own blood, Lyanna might have shamed him before a host of brave men, much to his disgrace.

“Your eyes see but you do not understand,” she concluded of his powers of observation. Her brother took it with a frown and a swift protest, but she shook her head, insisting upon her point, “One may well expect of the common man to be crass in act and speech. That does not mean we need debase ourselves to their level.  If indeed her servant merited punishment, it ought to be meted out not at the hand of the lady of the house.“

“Come now, you shan’t hold actions done in anger against her,” Benjen cajoled, placing his hand upon her elbow, manipulating their positions slightly. “Would that you presented yourself a sweeter presence. Lady Cersei may conduct herself however she wishes in the company of her servants and none may chide her for it, least of all the servants themselves. Likely as not, the girl is pleased she escaped with no greater chastisement.”

“What a perfectly childish answer.” She dragged her arm from her brother’s grasp and lifted the hem of her skirts, stepping over a small puddle. Benjen followed at a swift pace, matching her before he managed to catch hold of her once more as she approached Rickard Karstark. Shielding her eyes from the high sun once she took position before him, Lyanna exchanged greetings with the man. “How glad I am to see a familiar face.”

“’Tis I who is glad to rest my eye upon you, my lady,” her kin assured, holding an arm out to her, “but though I know better, I must ask; what has you in such a mood.” He nodded towards Benjen and the at her.

“No more than a sibling’s quarrel,” she laughed to cover her frustration with Benjen. “Surely you have had your fair share and care not to hear of our own. And now that you have asked your question, I should express a desire to pose questions as well. Where are my father and brothers?” It occurred to her their absence might have more than one explanation, yet she dared not assume the better when the answer could be worse.

“His Majesty yet holds them to council, although when I’d left it seemed to be breaking, for all lords and knights know the ships shall continue arriving.” He smiled reassuringly. “Rest easy, my lady, they live and breathe as surely as I do.”

Rickard regaled her with a few recollections, speaking of Brandon’s courage in battle, as they rode upon steeds provided from she knew not where. “And then, if you can imagine it, your brother struck his javelin into the man’s skull.” So much like her brother. Lyanna nodded her head, pasting a smile upon her face. “Eddard would not be left behind either. And though he paid a steep price for his bravery, you will find him much elevated.”

It never failed to amaze her how other men sought to convince her of her own brother’s worth compared to the eldest son. “Ned was ever steadfast. There is greatness in constancy,” she mused, not entirely certain how the men flanking her would take it. “I shall be very glad to offer my brother the felicitations he so richly deserves.” She turned her face towards Rickard whose cast spoke without words. “And, of course, I shall wish to look every man in the face and give my gratitude if naught else.”

“My lady is gracious. Dare I hope you will present at your father’s table once the King calls for feasting?” That duty she would not escape even had she wished it. Rickard pointed out the banners of her house, fluttering upon a hillock. “There, my lady, you may wait upon the return of your kin.”

“All I wished was to know where I might find the tents, but I need no rest and would rather occupy my time. Do you know, ser, if there are yet wounded to tend to in the maesters’ tents.” Their arrival came after turns had passed over the soldiers, and yet she could not go forth without asking.

“Some, I reckon, although many have made their choice long past. Those lingering are not like to provide you any task of interest.” She chuckled at his assertion but did not explain her desire; she merely repeated that she would be taken to the maesters’ tents and that Rickard would indulge her.

He acquiesced and Benjen insisted that he would join her as well. “Someone ought to keep an eye on the poor souls, in case they need any aid.”

Her palm struck her brother’s shoulder playfully. “What a wretch you are. Who tended your wounds, may I ask?”

“I was only teasing,” Benjen laughed, dismounting swiftly upon their arrival. He helped her down as well, moving away with a slight bow. “You will not take it amiss if I should follow Rickard about in search of more exciting exercise?”

“Indeed I should not. Go then, brother. Rickard, I bid you, look after him as you would your own siblings. Father would not be pleased with me were I to lose him.” Benjen laughed at her excessive care and assured her he had little need of eyes upon his back. “What of a guiding hand?” She sent him off and turned her attention upon the white tents of the maesters.

Better that she began she meant to go, Lyanna stepped within the first one, moving the flap out of the way, to better look upon the collection of wounded. A stout little man noted her arrival and dusted his hands off, white flecks dropping at his feet and upon the soft –leather boots he wore. “And who might you be?” he questioned, eyes firmly upon her face.

She had purposefully donned a working garb beneath her cloak, garb which would be appropriate to wear when one meant to stain it with blood and mud and the gods knew what else. So she entered fully, allowing the flap to drop behind her. “Lyanna of House Stark,” she introduced herself, stepping over a pile of linens. She looked to the benches upon which men sat. Some watched her, others slept and some remained impassive though they were awake. “I see you have no helpers.”

The man snorted and pointed to a small keg. “There be water in there. Wash the wounds as best you may upon that lad there,” he nodded towards a lonesome bench which held one man, lying upon his back. He slept.

“His wounds look fresh,” she noted softly, approaching the boy. He could be no older than herself. Lyanna knelt by him. “Know you how he came about such injuries?” After a cursory inspection, she rose to her feet and walked to the keg. A rag rested upon the rim. She took it and submerged it into water.

“As all men do,” the master of the tent answered gruffly.

Perceiving in that a silent admonishment, Lyanna produced a thoughtful sound by manner of reply before she returned to her patient. Gently she cleansed his face, wiping at streaks of dirt and angry red lines. Then she moved down, to his shoulders. He slept, the shallow rise and fall of his chest speaking of draughts and such. She continued to wash him until she thought the wounds had been properly cleaned. All that remained of concern was a wide slash across his chest, which she had avoided placing her rag against for fear of disturbing whatever it was that had been placed upon it. Grainy greyish-white paste filled the split.

Her host came to her and oppressed in her hands thread and a needle. “You know how to sew.” It was no question. She nodded nevertheless. “It need not be pretty but knit the flesh back together to the best of your abilities.

“What of the white stuff?” she questioned.

“Disturb it as little as you may.” Her orders clear, Lyanna knelt upon soft earth, placing one stitch after another with slow, methodical movements. Piercing flesh was different from piercing gauze. It resisted to her attempts and she feared it caused the subject much pain, though with him unconscious she could hardly tell. But the gods were good and the man did not wake before she’d managed to finish with the stitching.

A heavy hand pushed down upon her shoulder and a shadow fell upon her, darkening the space beneath her, falling upon her skirts. “Not bad,” the man commented. “Come along; there are others who would benefit by your hands.”

She took on yet another man.

The flap of the tent shook and trembled, flying towards the covered skies. Lyanna turned to see who it was that had arrived. She met the gaze of her servant. She must have found her way across the camp to have joined her with such alacrity. “I’ve brought a few of them as well,” she said, “they wait on your word.”

“You left enough to see to the needs of the camp?” she questioned, wrestling with a long strip of cloth, attempting to tie it without bothering the wound it covered. The bondswoman nodded, which in turn prompted Lyanna to allow the other women to come in.

Their host regarded the newly arrived hands with silent appreciation, simply nodding towards the keg of water. And so the tasks were split between them all and they set to work. “My lady, should you not take some rest. There is enough of us to aid.”

“Have I not rested all the way here?” She pressed stained bandaged into the other’s hand. “Pray give me those bandages over there.” She pointed overhead to a basket.

Knowing better than to press, the woman helped her with the fresh bandages and together they patched the man back up to the best of their abilities. Thankfully, no more sewing was needed and most wounds were of the superficial kind, which allowed for the work to be carried out with relative speed and in due time, the tent was freed.

“I go on the King’s business and my sister takes full advantage of her free reign yet again.” She started at the voice and turned on her heel. Brandon grinned at her from the entrance, hallowed by the light sweeping in from behind him. He held open his arms and accepted her embrace when she clung to him. “But none may chide her for it. I see you have been helping out.”

“You did say there is ever shortage of hands in the healing tents.” She smiled up at him once she’d put a small distance between them. “You have carried out the business of the King to good end?”

He led her without. Gesturing to the lands before them, he said, “As you can see, I have. Father would have enjoyed being greeted by his daughter rather than her servants. He has missed you.”

“And I him, but duty waits for no man.” Stepping away from Brandon, she washed her hands of the grime, wondering, if late, whether she had ruined his garb. The blood seemed dried rather, which gave her to hope she had not in fact inconvenienced him. “But tell me more of the King and his plans, if you may.”

“What more should you like to hear?” Brandon questioned, helping her on her horse once they reached the beast. He mounted his own.

“No more and no less than you are willing to allow,” she answered, throwing her reins to Brandon. “Hold her steady for me. My fingers are like to fall off and I should not enjoy that at all.”

“That is what comes out of your obstinacy.” He smiled as he said it; she understood he would share no more. “Why not send the servants on this errand, you silly girl?” Brandon led her horse after his, the movement steady and slow, not like to throw her back of otherwise bruise her. “You would have been better served to sit in the shade.”

“One’s actions ought not be based on either pleasure or pain when setting out to do what must be done. Those men fought as bravely as any other. They are deserving our care as much as you or any other knight. I could not rest easy, leaving them to their wounds. ”

“What a selfless soul you are.” She perceived not criticism in his voice but wonder. And then it was she who wondered whether she was in fact such as he described. “Whatever will you do when there are no more wounded men to care for?”

“There are always matters to see to. Duty brings men together, after all.” Brandon nodded, but his attention had shifted, she could tell. Indulgent of his nature, Lyanna struggled to find some other subject for him to engage her upon. “I was greeted by Rickard Karstark upon my arrival. He was kind enough to share some of the tales regarding your and Ned’s heroics.”

“Vastly exaggerated, I assure you. Ned and I did only our duty. A word you are exceedingly fond of, I take it.” He nevertheless spoke to her of the skirmished and the pirates betraying their own. “Had they not turned upon their brethren we would have trudged longer in these parts. Although, feeling vindicated myself, I must tell you I pity them not.”

“Vindicated? Were they Ironborn I would have understood, but these men?” Might be it was the very fact they’d fought against each other so recently.

“Those who scoff at honour deserve to feel the cut of its absence. “ He tugged a bit harder on her mare’s reins, forcing the beast to change pace and Lyanna to lean in slightly. “The gods were on our side.”

“And why should they not?” He nodded with relish at her words.

They continued in easy conversation, trading tales, he of war, she of home and hearth. She told him of his daughter, the bits and pieces she suspected Catelyn had not written of and those she too had neglected to detail. “You would not believe how sweet she is and I know my good-sister will be very pleased indeed to show you her progress.”

“And I will be very pleased to observe it all soon, gods be willing.”

They reached camp as the sun dipped beneath the horizon line. Lyanna took a moment to appreciate the speckles of gold entwined with strand of soft pinks and glowing oranges. A gust of wind tugged at her hair, blowing strands eastward. She took a deep breath.

Her father’s men, men of Winterfell not unknown to her, stopped to greet her and she returned the words with no small measure of affection, glad to see so many of them still lived. When she wrote to the maester of her home, he would be able to alleviate the fear of many a woman. Like before, Lyanna was aided down from her saddle by her brother, only Brandon had the advantage of height and strength over Benjen which allowed him to easily manipulate her. Having thus brought her to stand at his side, he pointed towards one of the greater tents. “Knowing you, you have neglected to step foot within our accommodations yet.”

“Not for a lack of want,” she assured him, taking hold of his arms. Within her brothers and father awaited, their reunion complete at last.

Father stood to his feet and embraced her, the words upon his lips lost in her hair. She did manage to read some worry in his address for all that. Thinking it might have to do with the King and whatever plans he concocted yet, she avoided making mention of it, instead accepting a cup from Ned and offering, as she had promised she would, congratulations upon his conduct. “Not that I think you’ve done it for the praise.” His smile seemed strained as he accepted the sentiment.

“One cannot help but rejoice, seeing one’s children so close together once more,” father spoke, cutting through the mist of unease. He lifted his cup and his sons drank with him. For herself, Lyanna was pleased with a sip.

“Arrangements have been made for you, my dearest,” the patriarch began after he had washed the dust of the day from his throat. “Her Majesty will keep all noblewomen close to her and though I wish no more than to keep you here with us, you will be better served to keep company with those closer to the throne.”

“If my lord thinks it best.” She might be able to convince one or two of them to help out in the healing tents. With that in mind, she nodded her head as though to strengthen her own conviction.

The Queen was a nice enough sort, she supposed, even with her air of hopelessness clinging tightly to her shoulders, even as a cloak might. She would do Lyanna no harm. And at worst, she would be able to avoid Robert’s company for a while longer. Such an explanation fitting her need for even as little as a few more days, Lyanna accepted the decree in her heart and vowed she would do her very best by her father. Although she suspected they stood to lose little even if she did act in an outrageous fashion; to a point.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The King’s feast brought together not only the lords of great import, but many of the commanders of the sellswords. Lyanna watched their table with a mixture of awe and disquiet. They had been pivotal to the King’s plan and yet they were men of little honour, men without allegiance and no true purpose. They shared hall and food and the King’s favour. Lyanna turned her attention upon Robert who had begun speaking once more.

“I am certain you will find Storm’s End to your liking,” he was saying, handsome in the wan light. She wondered whether she might convince him to go in search of his brother who appeared to have faded into the throng. “And I know my lady mother should find your presence delightful. It was ever her regret that she never managed to conceive a daughter.”

“I am certain I shall enjoy her company very much as well,” she replied politely. Would that she did not have to do so upon Robert’s arm, alas that she would no more change with thought than the pig would grow wings and fly. She reached out for her cup. Half-full, it beckoned to her. At least she would drown her misgivings.

Robert nodded his head eagerly. There was something almost endearing about his wish that she get along with his mother. “Do you swim?”

“Poorly. I confess I haven’t a talent for it.” Nor had any of her brothers offered to teach her and she knew that at least Brandon knew how to swim. What she’d learned she had on her own, with no small amount of exertion.

“You ought to learn. In fact, I will teach you myself. The beach at Storm’s End is very fine.” Robert Baratheon on the one hand, freezing cold water on the other; the gods enjoyed mocking her. “Do not tell me you are afraid of the water.”

“Certainly not of the water,” she quipped, but he failed to pick up her meaning, launching into wave after wave of reassurance. “No more, Robert,” she finally interrupted by the time she could no longer contain her amusement. “If ‘tis your wish to teach me, I will not refuse. “

“Woman you must be daft, laughing like that. I made the proposal in good faith.” She calmed herself down gradually.

“I do not laugh at you, ser.” He frowned. “ I swear it, Robert. “ But her words seemed to matter not, for he had decided to take offence and thus, his frown deepened to the point where she worried he might lash out.

“What then amuses you do?” he demanded. Mercifully no one ;paid them much mind, busy as they were drinking and laughing.

“Merely that you would concern yourself with so trivial a matter. I did not think your many tasks would permit it.”  That seemed to soothe his pride to some extent. He calmed visibly, the clouds vanishing from his expression.

“I assure you I am the master of my own actions and will do as I please in this.” And in other matters, she did not doubt. Lyanna awarded him the coveted agreement. It would be beyond foolish to enrage the man before so many eyes.

“Speaking of mastering oneself, I see that I am needed among the Queen’s ladies. I trust you will excuse me,” she spoke, rising from her seat. Robert turned to look as she expected he would, but was not satisfied in his quest. “I assure you, ser, no ill may befall me in such company.” Waiting no longer on his answer, she gently raised the hem of her skirts, struggling with the layers. Too strong a grip would crumple the cloth; too easy a hold would see them all running down like water. She wished she had taken the time to alter the broadness of the hem, but her eyes fell upon the many little stones and she had simply balked, electing to pack it as it was.

Her battle was carried to good end once she reached the Queen’s circle. Her son, the King’s heir, had grown bored and wished to be entertained. One of the Queen’s women had just suggested they walk about the chamber and look upon the strange sights the Stepstones had to offer.

They were not so strange in truth. Lyanna had seen all manner of men among the sellswords, but they were still just men. Some looked much like the common Westron man, others had about them the look of Old Valyria, and other simply were. Lyanna saw little to admire and little to detest in their countenance. For that she came not in the support of such an idea. Yet the Crown Prince seemed to take well to it for his agreement reached her ears and in his hast he grabbed at the hand of the lady who’d made the suggestion.

“We shan’t let you walk alone,” the Queen stated once the matter proved to the Prince’s satisfaction. “Lady Lyanna, join them, if you would be so kind.” And she could not refuse though to sift at the Queen’s side would have given her much more comfort. She curtsied her agreement and started after the couple who had already taken their first steps. Well knowing eyes would be upon them and doubtlessly, a Kingsguard would see to their safety, she had little trouble following. What posed some issue was the blasted skirts with their unwillingness to be tempered into obedience.

Lady Maryah explained to the young Prince the role of every man he asked about. And the child did not disappoint with his enthusiasm for posing questions. They came one after the other. Along with him, Lyanna listened as well, eyeing the table of the sellswords and pirates as she did so.

One of the men stood to his feet, swaying to and fro. Her lips curled in distaste at the excess, but she continued her perusal, moving from one face to another. The most striking was a grey-haired man, posing as though he stood before his subjects and was not himself at the table of any man greater than himself. What a strange fellow.

She moved along with little Viserys and his minder, but could not shake a sudden cold feeling which came over her. The shiver halted her completely and her eyes turned towards the entrance. At that moment a loud booming sound cut through the noise of conversation.         

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Entre le fort et le faible, entre le riche et le pauvre, entre le maître et le serviteur, c’est la liberté qui opprime et la loi qui affranchit.” — Jean-Baptiste Henri Lacordaire
> 
> Also, opinions are welcome. :P


	4. iv. interactions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Note to self: never, ever play hero.

 

 

 

 

 

 

She dove away from the entrance, her knees hitting the hard ground. Lyanna winced at the pain slithering in small cracks left undefended by the sheer impact. She had taken greater falls, to be certain, but none had been surrounded by such din and danger. With a quickness not her own, fuelled by fear and instinct, her knees and hands gathered dust as she hurriedly slipped under the shield of a long tablecloth strained by wine and whatever else. Harsh yells disputed the momentary appearance of a small tendril of hope. She looked ahead at the whimper drawn from a hunched form.

“Your Grace,” Lyanna whispered urgently, crawling her way to the trembling child, “come here.” The boy gave her a look of blatant distrust. Nevertheless, he approached, slowly, the fear on his face intensifying as the sounds grew louder and louder around them. She latched onto him, more for her comfort than his own. Brandon had once said that those truly powerful would show their true colours when put in the position to protest someone weaker. But she couldn’t see it. She wanted to run away even more than before, Viserys or no Viserys. Of course she would love to save the child. Her hands trembled almost violently as the table shook, the dirty cover dancing tauntingly, slipping to and fro as if to threaten them.

Predictably, the child, pressing tighter into her, gave a weak little cry. The sound transformed into a full-blown shriek as the table toppled over and fell before them. Lyanna looked up, rising into a half-crouch, prepared to flee at the smallest indication of an attack. But before her was one of the men she’d seen at the table before. One of those sellswords. The man looked down at her and the child. Recognition came to life in his gaze as he dropped to his knees, turning to press his back against the wood. He held out a hand, towards an unseen partner. A short blade sailed through the air, handle first. He caught it, before looking over the edge of the table and throwing it away just as quick.

“Can you wield a bow?” he questioned just as another weapon came their way. Lyanna nodded without much though, half-paralysed in fear. The man gave her a sharp smile, tugging the boy from her arms and replacing him with a recurve bow. The size was slightly superior to anything she had used before and the leather tied around the limb, where her hand ought to be, was scraped and tattered. She grabbed hold of it firmly and picked up one of the arrows left at her feet.   

Lyanna was no prodigy with a bow. She was accurate enough though and hit the target more often than she missed. That was vastly different from aiming at a living, breathing creature. She let loose the first of the projectiles, watching it fly from her hand towards the entrance. It found its home within the breast of a sword-wielding man. The sellsword rose from his seat and jumped over the table, swinging a sword she had not seen in his hand.

He’s not left her much. Half a dozen arrows and the one she half already used. The thing to do was grab the prince and drag him from the skirmish. They were close enough to the wall and could move alongside it with some care. “Your Grace, stand behind me and hold those arrows.” The boy, to her relief, jumped at her words, grabbing fistfuls of her skirts. She walked backwards, in a small number of steps reaching the position she wished.

The weight hanging upon her skirts faltered, monetarily fiddling with her footing as he pressed an arrow towards her. “Careful now.” She couldn’t be certain he heard, yet neither did she have the time to repeat herself. She drew the string of her bow back and delivered what she hoped was a deadly blow into the oncoming form of a man. Before her concern could move to upper levels, a man dressed in sturdy mail came to her defence. His sword and arm put themselves before her as a shield and she, as was no doubt expected of her, breathed out in relief. But her hand grabbed for the child at her back and tugged him along.

Before long she realised he would not be able to keep with her pace, thus she simply ordered him to throw away the arrows and wrap his arms about her shoulders as she bowed her spine to reach his level. Viserys complied. His weight was almost too much for her to bear. Unlike Minisa, the Prince was no babe. She grunted in discomfort and struggled to advance. The gods must have been watching over her for she did manage to wave through the struggling men, keeping as she’d planned her position near the wall.

The arms around her tightened their hold, embrace nearly painful. She could see ahead one of the Kingsguards. The man saw her as well, she realised, when he turned, thrusting his sword through the gut of his enemy, kicking him over, all in one breath. Her luck could only hold out for so long, however. Blindsided completely, she could do little other than cry out as she caught movement out of the corner of her eye. She turned at the last moment, feeling a sharp pick in her side. A cry left her lips and something hot dripped beneath and over the cloth of her kyrtle. Pain momentarily crippled her senses.

“We have to move.” Someone took hold of her arm. Lyanna glanced up. To her great surprise, Cersei Lannister, with her too-green eyes and haughtiness, was holding her up. Whatever she might have said was lost in the ensuing attempt to reach. The wound in her side throbbed.

She made her mind up. “Take His Grace.” Cersei did. Lyanna pressed herself further against the wall, slipping away from the Lion’s daughter. “Be quick about it.” The lady looked as though she might protest, which would have been exceedingly stupid of her when Lyanna was making a sacrifice specifically for her and the little Prince to survive, but the approach of another had her rushing away. Lyanna, unable to find her footing anywhere near as firmly as she might have wished, turned towards the foe, her weapon the body of the bow.          

But alas, a bow without arrows had little use beyond serving as a paltry defence against oncoming attacks. The scent of blood was overpowering for a moment as her mind clouded. Instinctively, she took a step back, bringing herself flat against the wall. The bow surged upwards as she drove it blindly towards what she hoped was a vulnerable point. Another wave of pain shocked her into submission as it bloomed in the pit of her stomach.

As soon as it came, it was gone though. Her foe was pulled back with little grace. To her relief she was faced with the visage of Robert Baratheon. Finally, someone she knew and trusted. Her hands reached out for him, ignorant of the blood staining them. Likewise, he pulled her into a straight position, gently tugging her into his side. Unfortunately, fighting like that could not be truly effective. Even an injured, blood-deprived Lyanna could understand that much. Her initial joy washed away, bleeding into worry.

Yet Robert seemed to do well enough. Even one-armed, he drove his blade through the chest of a man rushing him. Her fingers dug into his shoulder and arm, clinging onto the small amount of safety she had found. Without meaning to, she found herself glad for her father’s choice and gazed upon Robert with new eyes. Such a man, a man who would not shirk his duty in the face of overwhelming odds, surely she could come to appreciate his finger points if only she tried. Why hadn’t she understood her father’s point when he’d first made it?

Lyanna blushed to think of her own feelings upon the matter initially. The warmth of the body supporting her weight shook and writhed at her side, but she was more aware of the presence than she was of her own fading misgivings. “Just a little longer, Lya,” Robert spoke, his voice strangely soft. “Hang on just a little longer.” He could not simply run from the battle, after all, and he was already shouldering her care.

What she did not expect, however, was the rain of arrows heading for them. Her reflexes, dulled by pain and fatigue, sluggishly responded to the signs of danger. Robert, far more alert, pushed her behind him. She whimpered at the explosion of pain in her side as the world came to a standstill, her knees buckling. But Robert did not move from his position as her shield. Drawing breath through her nose, she attempted to banish the sting of her wounds enough to make out what was happening in front of her. She faltered further, pain forcing her to the ground.  

Rising her eyes to the man before her, she could make out the faintest of movements. She had been hoping for something more. Darkness closed in on her. Robert swayed, which her mind instantly connected with defeat. Through sheer luck she managed to roll out of the way as the man came tumbling backwards, allowing her to finally survey the extent of the damage. The arrow sticking out of the Stormlander’s eye socket made it clear that his usefulness was at an end. Unable to help herself, she cupped Robert’s face between her hands, the shallow breathing working to entertain her mystifying hope that might be, somehow it would still turn out well. She thought she heard the song of steel above her.

“Ned!” Her brother did not turn around at her call. But he did lung into an attack, pushing the assailant back a few steps. Buoyed by his presence, Lyanna resumed her inspection of Robert. Yet in that she would not be satisfied. What had been shallow breathing before was a total absence by the time she settled her gaze upon his chest. Realisation wormed its way into her fatigued brain.

Lyanna drew back violently. Death was not catching. Unless someone stabbed her at the very moment, her closeness to the body would not steal her life. Nevertheless, she could not bear to stand so close to him. More yells and cried bled into one another around her. A hand pressed onto her shoulder, her eyes widened and something sharp bit into her back.

“Lyanna!” Her side throbbed and her back burned. The warmth dispersed, leaving behind pain. She ought to have been paying more attention. That was, as well, the last straw for her abused body. It shut down, leaving her to fall to the ground, caught in the mire of half-wakefullness. Someone turned her around. She wished she could say who, however her gaze blurred to the point she only managed to distinguish vague shapes. But the embrace was comfortingly solid, which she supposed was no more than she could ask for. Lyanna gave herself to the shadows, sliding into the nothingness of restful sleep. As to whether it was restorative or not, that was beyond her. Which was just as well since her mind was muddled and she did not think she could put a coherent spin on whatever it was she felt at the moment.

Teetering on the edge, she listened for the subtle sounds of conversation. “… on her back. It will need stitching.” She did not recognise the voice. She did not care to. “If we hurry.” What was the man speaking of? “Yours as well.” The conversation would not be making more sense to her even if she strained. Thus she gave up, waiting for whatever was to happen. She relaxed, or she thought she did. “That’s good.” The words penetrated the fine film settling over her consciousness.  The candle gutted out suddenly though, leaving her in the dark.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“You do not have to force yourself.” Lyanna turned gingerly, trying to avoid further damage to her side. The stitches pulled and tugged, the sting biting. Ned handed her the washcloth. This would be her first walk without the bedchamber since sustaining her injuries. Her brother made a sound in the back of his throat, wordlessly indicating she should resume her earlier position. She would have laughed but for the fact such show of merriment tended to leave her breathless for the worst of reasons.

“I am not.” Her answer was followed by a thin silence as she wiped her face clean. “Has father written yet?” She’d woken to word from her kin that Brandon and father had already boarded a ship bound for home. Given her restricted mobility and their father’s unwillingness to risk her health any further, she had been left in the Stepstones, surrounded by armed men, under the unrelenting care of her steadfast brother who had proceeded to glue himself at her side and become a permanent, as much as possible, fixture in her existence for the foreseeable future.

“Not yet.” She had managed her third letter meantime. There was something about men and their inability to set up a decent correspondence unless it pertained to matter of state. The thought brought a grimace to her face. “Isn’t it better to wait until he has something to say though?” Ned questioned, as though her complaints were written plainly upon her face.

“What an asinine question; he should have plenty to say.” Good grief, Brandon had sustained his own set of wounds. That was reason enough to keep them closely informed of his progress. It did not help that the nature and seriousness of those injuries had been walled behind a shield of silence. “Don’t you want to know how Brandon is doing?”

“Lyanna!” She recognised the simmering annoyance threatening to break free of the usually placid nature her brother so easily sported and for a moment considered retreat. Ned had been her constant companion these past few weeks. She owed him something for that at least.

Keeping one’s silence was easier said than done. “There should be something. At least assurance that they have made it to shore safely.” Her insistence was met with a dark look from the man standing before her. Curious how some of that softness melted whenever she challenged him these days.

“It does no good to wonder,” Ned reprimanded, reaching out for the cloth she had allowed to fall upon her lap. “When there is word, you will know.” He put the object away and lifted her to her feet. Her spine protested the test to its sturdiness, but she forced herself to grab onto his arm. “How is this?”

Lyanna took a few moments to find her bearings. It was not painful as it had been the first time. “It shall be a long walk,” she said after a brief moment used to settle against his side. How did men recover as they did from their own injuries when she could barely put one foot in front of the other and not fall flat on her face?     

Absent answer, she turned her attention upon the task at hand, forcing herself to straighten before she took another step. Ned, who in spite of his own trouble seemed more than capable of holding her weight even as she wobbled dangerously, steadied her yet again, bringing them nearer the wall. His shoulder pressed against the wall kept them both from falling to the floor in a graceless heap. What it could not do, however, was bring them any closer to the door.

“Are you certain you aren’t setting too lofty a goal for yourself?” he questioned. “A short one might do just as well.” The glimmer of wryness was lost in her grunt. It would do her good not to forget that in spite of his nature Ned was as much her brother as any of the other two and would not hesitate to tease should an opportunity appear.

“Long.” Ned chuckled, his arm settling not quite at her waist. “I’ve been cooped up in this chamber for far too long.” The quiet was going to drive her mad in the end. She wanted to hear the sound of inane chatter and know herself in the same old world she had inhabited before.

Ned brought her without as he’d promised, keeping his pace even and slow. To her great relief, they attracted little enough attention, with only a pair or two of eyes turning to survey them as they ambled to their hearts’content. “Well then, sister dearest, what say you?”  

She tipped her head back. “You have my eternal gratitude.” A gust of wind ruffled her loosely bound hair. “This feels incredible.”

“You have most definitely spent too much time in that chamber.” His jest fell flat. She did dig her nails in the back of his hand in warning, which he rewarded with an annoyed little sound. “You grow more and more violent by the day.”

“And you need to hone your skills a while longer before you land a hit,” she taunted. “Truly Ned, do not go soft on me now.” Her brother laughed, a full sound which eased the tension in her shoulders even if it did naught for the pain gathered at the tail-end of her spine. She allowed a grin upon her face.

They were rudely interrupted. “Lady Lyanna?” Her head swivelled to the side, a movement she instantly regretted. Wincing, she rested her gaze upon the intruder. A shallow breath escaped her slightly parted lips. Her irritation evaporated, bleeding into vague interest intermingled with subdued admiration.

It was not every day that Jaime Lannister called out to her. She batted her eyelashes up at him, not one to allow an opportunity to pass her by and because, quite frankly, Jaime Lannister paid mind to no maiden, which made him quite the safest man to do pull such a stunt upon.

 

 

 

 

 

   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you tell I have no idea what I am doing? Oh, and that sellsword who gave Lyanna the bow was not Rhaegar. Also, yes, she does intend to flirt with Jaime, mostly because she considers him a herbivore...basically.
> 
> Impressions?


End file.
